“It’s me, and I want my father.”

By this time Aunt Maria, hearing a noise, had come in with a light.

“Are you sick, dear child?”

“No, auntie; I don’t know what’s the matter; I ’spect it’s the blues.  I had ’em you know, when the beer came to an end—­I mean the world—­I mean that night Polly Whiting called me up.”

Horace used all his self-control to keep from laughing.

“Well, Cousin Dotty, you do look blue, I declare; as blue as the skimmiest milk of the cheatiest milkman.  Mother, isn’t there something in the medicine chest that is good for the blues?”

“They are in my side—­I mean it,” said Dotty, dismally.  “I’m afraid it’s a—­snake?”

Mrs. Clifford took the afflicted child in her arms, and began to question her with regard to the exact spot where she felt the “blues,” assuring her that some relief might be afforded if the nature of the trouble could only be discovered.

“O, ho,” cried Horace, suddenly; “I know what it is; it’s a jigger.”

Upon reflection, it was decided that Horace might be right.  A little creature called the chegre, had perhaps made its way out of some decayed log and crept in under Dotty’s skin, causing all this heat and irritation.  There was a small, hard swelling on her side, which appeared to move.  Her father asked her if she was willing to have him cut it out with his penknife.

Dotty hesitated; her nerves quivered at sight of the sharp blade.

“But that cruel little chegre is drinking your blood, my daughter.  The more he drinks, the larger he will grow, and the harder it will be to cut him out.”

“That’s so,” said Horace.  “I could preach, with jigger for a text.  Ahem!  He is like sin—­the more you let him stay, the more you’ll wish you hadn’t.  Come, Dotty, be brave, and out with him!”

“You can talk to me,” said Dotty, bitterly; “but if it was your side that had a jiggle in, perhaps you’d feel as bad’s I do.”

Horace was prepared for this.

“But I’ve had them cut out twice, miss.  Being a boy, I could bear it!”

This settled the question.

“Girls are just as brave as boys,” said Dotty; and submitted to the knife without a murmur.

The next day she was regarded as something of an invalid.  She had lost so much sleep that she did not rise until her father was far away on his journey.  Aunt Maria gave her a late breakfast, which was also to serve for an early dinner.  It was an oyster-stew; and Dotty enjoyed eating it in Mrs. Clifford’s room on the lounge.  Katie sat beside her, watching every mouthful, and begging for it the moment it entered the spoon.

“Don’t tease so,” said Dotty; “your poor cousin is sick; you don’t want to take away her soup?”

“Yes, I does,” replied Katie, coolly; “I likes it myself,” opening her mouth for more.

Dotty gave her an oyster.  The next moment something grated against Katie’s teeth, and she picked out the hard substance with her fingers.  Mrs. Clifford happened to see it.